September 4, 2009

but nothing happened in my heart

This fly has taken residence in my kitchen for approximately 3 days now.This morning I could've sworn he was a small vaguely triangular winged pest and just now I can see segments and definite fly-like body bobbles (What's that, I don't know).Whatever. He got fat, is what I'm trying to say.Flies don't really do anything but be annoying and maybe make more flies. He will be dead by tomorrow or the next day probably. Just whizzing around the apartment during his last days, being confused at why he can't get back outside probably. The guy who owns the nice cafe up the block who I'll occasionally end up on the same Manhattan-bound train with, he said to me once, "You don't wanna know what goes on in the lifespan of a fly- it's disgusting! Utterly, vile."Knowing this, I really don't like when this fly lands on me, even for a second.

I feel like I ought to acknowledge this autumnal weather that is so pleasant and mild in the city. But you all have bodies with sensors for that sort of thing and stuff. Wearing jackets and boots at the start of the season is one of my favorite things. Pumpkin Spice Lattes from Starbucks are something I always think I like until I have one and it makes me feel a bit ill and then I can't poop for probably 3 days or so.

I have a great urge to go someplace else. To grab a disposable camera, a book with blank pages, a train ticket and head far away to the country or someplace very opposite to a metropolis. I want to hear crickets before they're gone for the rest of the year.

I received a postcard from a friend who had traveled to Budapest recently. I tried really hard to make several puns with "Budapest" but I couldn't (That doesn't really have anything to do with anything other than my inability to pun and probably rap). On the postcard he managed to scrawl this quote in teeny (approx. 8pt font size) letters:

"All of us wanderers are made like this. A good part of our wandering and homelessness is love, eroticism. The romanticism of wandering, at least half of it is nothing else but a kind of eagerness for adventure. But the other half is another eagerness-- and unconscious drive to transfigure and dissolve the erotic. We wanderers are very cunning. We develop those feelings which are impossible to fulfill: and the love which actually should belong to a woman, we rightly scatter among small towns and mountains, lakes and valleys, children by the side of the road, beggars on the bridge, cows in the pasture, birds and butterflies. We separate love from its object, love alone is enough for us, in the same way that in wandering we don't look for a goal, we only look for the happiness of wandering, only the wandering."